


Such a Heavenly Way to Die

by Jeevey



Category: Oasis (Band)
Genre: Inspiral Carpets, M/M, References to Oasis (Band)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:07:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25052161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeevey/pseuds/Jeevey
Summary: May 30, 1988. Noel Gallagher just turned 21, and he's going out alone for his birthday. Who knows what he might find?
Relationships: Noel Gallagher/Graham Lambert
Comments: 6
Kudos: 13





	Such a Heavenly Way to Die

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Transistor](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23770351) by [Jeevey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jeevey/pseuds/Jeevey). 



The International 2 was a wide brick building with matching flights of stairs like an elementary school, set in a maze of identical blocks of flats in Longsight. Noel had passed it a thousand times as a child. Between one bus stop and another, not far from his mate Gerry’s house, with a convenience store at the end of the street where it was easy to nick the lollipops; those were the ways he marked the places in his world. His younger aunties had used to go on dates there back when it was the Carousel Club, and come home to tell his mother about this bloke or that one. Noel imagined them like the Andrews Sisters in sherbet colored dresses, sipping highballs and eyeing men dressed up like Bing Crosby.

It was different now, though. Noel’s aunties were still factory girls but they were old and married, and the Carousel was the International, and the bands might be Loudon Wainwright, Leather Nun--or tonight, the Stone Roses. Noel waited in a long queue down one of the stairs, blowing his own cigarette smoke into the cloud that hung over the crowd and trying not to clutch the ticket in his pocket. It was only four pounds in advance at the record shop, but four pounds was nothing to sneeze at. Maybe he’d thought so when he was cashing his dole, but now that he worked for his money he didn’t fancy paying for a ticket twice. That was beer money. It was his birthday, and he planned to get well smashed.

Ticket holders went up the right stair, punters buying tickets at the door went up the left. Noel was in the faster line on the right. Everyone around him seemed to have come with friends. Ordinary kids just talking and laughing, Noel thought; girls tossing their hair and boys making rude jokes. He told himself he was feeling perfectly calm. He wondered if any of them were secretly like him.

As he got closer to the doors he could see that every bit of glass on the facade was plastered with white posters with big red letters in a round stamp like a seal. “Northwest Gay and Lesbian Alliance. Never going underground.” Pasted to the wall were huge black signs as tall as Noel. “Scrap Clause 28. Out and Proud.” Noel looked around. Were any of these ordinary kids out, the way he felt he could never be?

Noel knew where to find gay men. At the park, at the university library, in certain public toilets were men who would take one look at Noel, wait for his slow blink, and push him onto his knees in a toilet stall, whispering to him to take it, yeah, take it. They were always much older. They wore suits or tradesmen’s clothes and wedding rings, had nervous eyes, and they came so fast it was over in a minute.

Sometimes they remembered to make Noel come too. Often they didn't. Or they’d make him tug off on his knees, holding onto him by the hair. That felt dirty in the bad way, and left Noel angry even after he’d come on their shoes. Once or twice men had put Noel against a cubicle wall and stroked their two cocks together. He’d liked that. One time a fellow in a suit had done it that way with his mouth against Noel’s neck, making little gasping sounds in his ear, and Noel thought he would pass out from pleasure. He had never seen that fellow again, but he dreamed about it.

But what about the kids like him? This was a benefit show for queers, after all. He knew they must be there, ordinary kids who liked to fuck their own kind instead of the other. He knew they existed. He’d seen girls on the street holding hands now and then. He’d been to Smiths' shows and seen boys leaning against each other, intimately. Once or twice he’d seen a pair of punks from a distance with their hands in each others’ rear pockets, laughing carelessly. He couldn’t imagine being like that. And if the only way you could tell they were queer was by seeing them touch another lad, well--how could you ever find one to talk to?

Noel handed over his ticket under the towers of red block letters and wondered if anyone else felt like they stood in a spotlight.

Inside was a big carpeted foyer, the doors to the dance hall, and stairs to the balcony. There was a bar on each level, and queues were already getting long. Noel waited for a beer without speaking to anybody and walked around with his pint, looking for a place to stand where he wouldn't feel like a knob. The DJ was playing a mix of northern bands inside the dance hall, fucking loud already, and the music soothed him a little. If he couldn’t hear a fucking thing there could be no need to talk. He drew close to the soundboard, watching.

There was a guitar tech fucking around with cords onstage, and a fat man at the soundboard watching him. Noel knew it was just a tech because he’d seen the Stone Roses a bunch of times already, and knew what they and their crew looked like. Once he’d heard _Sally Cinnamon_ on the radio he began following the music papers obsessively, waiting for their dates and going to every one of them. He’d even run into their bassist at a party once, and found that he was fucking nice.

The girls and the papers all talked about Ian Brown, of course, with his huge dark eyes and his cheekbones. But it was John Squire that Noel couldn’t take his eyes from, looking so unassuming with his glossy Gretsch and making the most incredible sounds come out. Noel felt awe and a burning envy, looking at him. He knew for a fact that John was a Manchester boy exactly like him, and yet Noel heard worlds in his music. It made him believe he could make it out. That things could change.

The fat man had wandered away now, and a boy about Noel’s age had taken his place. A blue-and-white hooded sweatshirt and a mop of curly hair--he bent hastily over the soundboard and examined the row of inputs on the side. He began to mess around with a backpack that hung on his shoulder, then paused and looked around. Suddenly he darted away and picked up an unattended pint, looking ostentatiously careless while the fat man came back to his post at the soundboard. Fucking chancer, Noel thought, he was trying to record the show.

Noel wondered if he might talk to him, the curly bootlegger. He looked straight as straight, just like Noel did, with baggy jeans and clean white trainers. There was nothing to mark him on the outside, but something about him caught Noel’s eye. Besides, he looked fucking fun.

Noel craned to look again, as a mass of people passed him on their way to the front. Yeah. Something about that curly hair and the dimple in the chin…he looked like he brought the party with him. A kid like that would surely have friends though, and a life. A girlfriend, probably. Surely the only reason he was here alone was to make an illegal recording. Noel imagined trying to strike up a conversation with him, and the very thought made his stomach clench with nerves. He wheeled toward the toilets, sliding a hand into his front pocket. There. He could think of it again later, after.

Most of the boys going into toilet cubicles went in pairs. Not, Noel knew, to go down on their knees and get off in silence, hurriedly. They went with compact mirrors and little razor blades tucked inside just like him, only with friends. Not alone. In the cubicle he pulled out his kit. It was stupid, but he’d walked through a lot of drugstores before he decided on the right compact mirror to nick. He liked the smooth aqua blue of this one, the way it showed just one eye as he bent over it to sniff, and the way it fit in his hand like a shell. He rubbed the plastic baggie between his fingers to break up the chunks and scooped out the drugs with the razor.

Noel liked speed. It was cheap; you could get it anywhere. You could rave for hours with it. You could work all day without needing to stop or eat, if you needed to. He racked it out carefully, not losing a speck over the edge of his mirror. Speed was cheaper than coke, but not cheap enough to just throw around. There were a million things to love about speed, but most importantly it made you feel relaxed, confident-like. With a little crank Noel felt he was taller, more good looking, more funny. Good looking enough, for instance, to talk to the guy in the blue and white hoodie. What was the worst that could happen, after all? The guy would miss the look in Noel’s eye and they would talk football like regular blokes. Noel rubbed his nose, tucked away his gear, and went out to try it.

He was gone, though. Noel’s empty stomach suddenly felt like a brick. The boy was gone from his post by the railing. Noel had missed it. The Roses had come on at last, an hour late, and Noel had missed the first number waiting for his turn in the loo, and while he’d done it his chance had left. Probably he’d given up on trying to get access to the soundboard and just gone to listen in another part of the building. Or to chat up a girl. Or gone down front to get all sweaty in the masses of jumping kids. There must be eight hundred people in here; Noel would never find him.

But no. Noel could see the little cord coming out from the side of the sound board where none had been there before. Probably there was a little tape recorder resting on floor where the fat man would never look. Curlymop had managed it, and that meant he was still here. Noel rubbed his hands over his face and waited. And soon enough, the fat man went away for another pint and almost immediately he appeared. His sweatshirt was tied around his waist now, that’s why Noel had missed him at first. He bent over to check his tape recorder, and just like that Noel stepped up behind him.

“What the fucking hell are you doing?” he bellowed, as if he were a security man. The kid dropped his tape recorder with a clatter and shot upright. Caught with his hand in the cookie jar his eyes were fucking enormous, and he clearly expected that Noel was somebody come to pound his head in. Noel burst out laughing at his expression.

The kid slumped in relief and laughed himself. “Christ, you’re going to give me a heart attack. I thought you were--fuck, here he comes.” He took Noel by the elbow and pulled him away, back to his spot on the railing. Noel let himself be took, wondering at the hand on his elbow and the boy’s easy way of talking. He found himself with his back against the rail, watching the strange boy blink at him in the noise and the lights.

But he wasn’t a kid exactly, Noel saw now. He might be a few years older, but young looking, with wide spaced eyes and a dimple in either cheek. He seemed about to laugh, even as he looked Noel over.

“I won’t turn you in if you give me a copy,” Noel said, grinning.

The stranger laughed and put out his hand. “Done. I’m Graham.” His hands were long and slender, but hot, and with big knuckles on the fingers. Musician’s hands, maybe. Noel felt electrified as he took it in his own. Graham smiled. Yes, this was it. Noel knew it, though he didn’t know how. They were the same kind.

His eye fell on Graham’s black t-shirt, the reason why he hadn’t seen in him the crowd. There it was, blazoned right on his chest, though Noel hadn’t seen it until now. The fucking Smiths. Noel laughed out loud. It was the popsicle shirt; photo of a boy with mussy hair bent down, cheeks sucked hollow, and his lips sealed tight to the tip of an ice pop. Noel felt his own neck tighten, just looking at it. He looked back at Graham’s face and found him watching.

After that it was easy. They talked music, as Noel might with anyone. But Graham stood a little too close, and once or twice touched Noel for no reason. It was crowded, and fucking loud, and the Roses were playing a blinder, but Noel was aware of almost nothing except Graham: the lanky body, the brown curls spilling over his eyes, the dimple that disappeared and appeared again next to his smooth-looking lips. He had proper thin, firm man’s lips, not puffy girls' ones like Noel. They looked like they would kiss you like they fucking meant it. Noel felt dizzy as he looked at them, and turned away toward the stage to get a breath.

“This sound is fucking shit,” he said. “Did they get this guy from under a bus station bench?” He leaned on the railing, trying to be casual.

Turning away was a different signal than he'd thought, though, because Graham leaned right up against his back and placed his hands on either side, bracketing Noel in there like he was a girl. Christ.

“It’s the room,” he said in Noel’s ear.

“Wh--What?” Noel said.

“This room is shit for sound. Look at the way it’s shaped. See how the ceiling is all low and flat, and all the walls and things are square? Mozart could play this place and it would still sound terrible.” Graham was taller, and had to bend a bit to speak in Noel’s ear. His breath was warm, and sent shivers over Noel’s entire body.

“You know a lot about music,” Noel observed calmly. He hoped it sounded calm, at least. This was really happening, was what he was really thinking. Here he was out in public, under anyone’s eye, with a fucking hot guy coming on to him, whispering in his ear. Anyone would know what they were from the way they stood together. Noel himself would know and envy them, if he walked by and saw. But he wasn’t walking by, he was right fucking here with Graham up against his backside, and Graham had found where Noel’s hair met his ear with his mouth.

“A bit,” Graham agreed. His long hands relaxed and then resumed their grip on the railing. His mouth moved slowly along Noel’s ear.

“Do you play?” Noel asked with difficulty. He just wanted more than anything to be fucking cool, to act like this was no big deal.

“Yeah.”

“I do, too,” Noel offered. He just wanted to be--God, _something_ enough to make Graham keep on what he was doing.

“I know,” Graham told him.

“Wait. Y’ do?”

Graham picked up Noel’s left hand from the railing and turned it over without speaking, showing Noel the calluses on his own fingertips. Then he put Noel’s hand back in its place, but left his thumb deliberately on its back. Fuck. Noel’s cock was pressed aching against the railing, and he was pretty fucking sure he knew what was going on with Graham behind him. But what came next? He had no idea. He wasn’t afraid, he just didn’t know what to fucking do.

He thought a minute, feeling every breath going in and out of both of them. Then he tipped his head up so his throat was exposed and his mouth near Graham’s ear and asked, “Are you staying for James?”

Graham’s hand closed on Noel’s hip, tight and purposeful. “No. I’m taking you back to mine, if you’ll come. James and their shit sound man can go die.”

Noel didn’t know why, he thought later, sprawled on his belly in Graham’s bed with Graham spread out in front of him. He didn’t know why he was the lucky one, why they found each other, how he had finally fucking known. But he had, and it was brilliant. He wriggled on the covers with satisfaction. He’d never been in a proper bed with a man before. Never done it to a man when he was on his back, knees spread open and soft.

“Oh my god,” Graham breathed. Noel ran his hands up Graham’s thighs and took him in deeper. It wasn’t even difficult. “Oh my _god_ ,” Graham said, much louder.

Noel pulled off. “Your flatmate?” he asked.

“At her boyfriend’s. But she knows anyway, it doesn’t matter. We can be as loud as we want,” Graham gasped. “Do that again.” Noel thought he might die of disbelief and happiness right there. They could be as loud as they wanted. It didn’t matter.

It was so easy, this. Why was it so easy when girls were so fucking hard? Noel remembered his confusion and distress the first time he faced down a pussy. What was he supposed to do with it? Diane made no more than a squeak when he touched her with his mouth, and he couldn’t tell if he was doing right. At last he made her come--or he hoped he did--and thrust against her thigh until he was done, and felt absolutely disgusting. It never really got any better, no matter what they tried. Noel thought he was probably just bad at sex.

This was brilliant, though. Noel knew how to suck cock, knew it in his bones. And by the way Graham was moaning, he believed he was good at it. “You like that?” he said, mostly to himself, pulling out Graham’s foreskin with his lips and sliding it back down again. He didn’t think Graham would hear.

 _“Yes,”_ Graham said emphatically. Noel laughed.

“Better than this?” he asked, sucking his lips tight and sliding them over Graham’s ridge, back and forth.

“Yeah. Fuck. No. I mean--”

“Which one?” Noel asked, grinning to himself. His mouth was half full of Graham's cock, and it sounded fucking hot when he talked. “Y’ gotta pick, right? Come on, then.” The sound of his speaking was wet and broken with sucking sounds, and there was Graham’s moaning and the bedspread soft underneath him, and for a second Noel thought he might come just from this.

Graham grabbed him by the head with those long hands, sitting up to stare at Noel between his knees. “Don’t. Fucking. Stop,” he said. “D’you understand?” Noel just slid his tongue up the underside of Graham's cock, and saw Graham's eyes go wide. “Oh god. Oh god. I’m gonna come down your throat, okay?” he gasped. Noel nodded, mouth all full even if he wasn't too fucking aroused to talk. Pretty soon Graham was thrusting into his mouth, writhing and shouting until Noel felt like he could write in the sky how fucking good he was. He let go and crawled up Graham’s chest, thoughtless and intent with lust.

He’d never done this before, never even imagined doing such a thing, but he straddled Graham’s pale shoulders without hesitation and pushed his cock straight into Graham’s waiting mouth. This was changing everything, Noel thought as he wrapped his fingers in Graham’s hair. Nothing would ever be the same again. He didn’t worry if he was doing it right, didn’t wonder if Graham liked it. He knew he did. Knew it by the grip of Graham’s hands on his thighs and the helpless pleasure on his face. Everything was going to be different now, just as soon as Noel shot all over his eyes and dimples, and over that pretty brown hair.

**Author's Note:**

> Paolo Hewitt relates this first meeting of Noel with the Inspiral Carpets' guitarist Graham Lambert in his book _Getting High_.
> 
> The title is taken from The Smith's song _There is a Light That Never Goes Out_. Noel's 2010 cover from his Teenage Cancer Trust benefit album is....revealing, I feel.
> 
> Check out my tumblr for images of Graham, the Inspirals, the International 2, and Noel when he was #still a roadie. This story is a prequel to my work Transistor, but is meant to stand on its own.


End file.
